


The Wound is Healed

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris hates his scars. Karl doesn’t.</p><p>Response to a prompt on the buckleup_meme,where anon asked for Karl showing Chris how beautiful he is.</p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i> “So, what’s brought your bitch on, Chris? It was just a photo-shoot… did something happen?” </i></p><p> </p><p>warnings: bad language, angst and implied infidelity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wound is Healed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for norfolkdumpling who made bespoke icons for the mods at jim_and_bones.
> 
> A million thanks to weepingnaiad for beta reading.
> 
> The title comes from this quote by novelist, Harry Crews (who was from Georgia!): _There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with._
> 
> Karl and Chris listened to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=df-eLzao63I&feature=related - The Andante, from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21
> 
> I was also inspired by this quote: _Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh._ ~ Leonard Cohen

**The wound is healed**

“How was it?”

Everything about Chris’ posture cries ‘shit’. Karl watches him deposit his keys, his phone and a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and bend to unlace his sneakers, his eyes never once meeting Karl’s.

Karl drops his feet to the floor.

“That bad, huh?”

Chris still doesn’t look at him, unbuttons his jeans.

“I’m taking a shower,” Chris says over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom. “Whoever said we got the perfect climate in LA is an asshole.”

Karl waits a second, and then follows him to the door. He’s aching to touch him, but sometimes it’s like this – this wall he can’t, doesn’t dare, breach. And when Chris rests his hand on Karl’s arm, he’s not sure whether this is ‘come here’ or ‘leave me alone’ so he doesn’t respond with anything of his own.

“Chris…”

Chris shakes his head, almost croaks, “Really, just gimme a minute here – it’s been a shit day.”

“Hey, there’s people who work in coalmines—”

Chris’ hand drops.

“Fuck. Off.” And the door slams shut between them.

Almost immediately, it’s opened a crack again. Sad, pale blue eyes blink at him.

“Could you fix me a drink?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Karl heads for the fridge, clears his throat and pours two glasses, one of San Pellegrino, another of Pinot Grigio, sets the water down, and takes the wine to the door.

“You want a hand?” He can hear the water, Chris coughing and the shower door opening.

“No. And don’t try and force me to drink that white shit again. I need something warm. Something sweet.”

“Hot chocolate?” Karl grins at the bare wood door. He starts a countdown, three… two…

“Fuck off.”

Ten minutes later, Chris emerges squinting, vapor swirling out into the lounge. He’s wrapped a white towel around his hips and he’s obviously removed his lenses because he’s rubbing hard at his left eye as he walks carefully over to Karl who’s stretched out on the couch.

“You look ten years younger,” Chris says, raising the glass of substituted red to his lips, “without my eyes in.”

“You spend too much time with Zach, it’s rubbing off on you.”

Chris settles opposite him and the towel falls open at the thigh, revealing an expanse of creamy, hair covered muscle. Karl hasn’t figured out what Chris needs yet, so he’s staying put, trying to ignore the stab of disappointment when he chooses not to wrap his long limbs around him.

Karl lights a cigarette and hands it over, lights one for himself, sitting back in the couch, raising his bare feet to the table nudging aside a pile of books.

“So, what’s brought your bitch on, Chris? It was just a photo-shoot… did something happen?”

Chris shrugs. Pulls long and hard at his cigarette and aims a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He leans back and Karl’s eyes flicker towards the towel again.

“I hate this shit,” he says simply.

“So what’s new? You’re an actor, so bloody well _act_ ; think about something else till it’s over.”

“Kind of like a prostate exam you mean?” Chris runs his hand across his short hair and leans over to tap his ash.

“If you like.”

Karl suddenly feels awkward. As usual, he has no fucking idea what’s going on in Chris’ mind; unlike most Californians, Chris mercifully doesn’t share his feelings every five bloody minutes, but sometimes, it would save on a lot of booze if he’d just cut to the chase. Karl decides not to push, waits.

“How’s the wine?”

“It’s fine.” Chris closes his eyes and his chest heaves up and out as he inhales deep.

“Chris, I presume, ‘cause you went to Berkeley, that you _can_ actually string a whole sentence together, but with the way you’re all mono-syllabic, maybe you should ask for a refund?”

Chris laughs, uses his fingers to count out the syllables, “Fuck my life, fuck my head and fuck, Hollywood. Three, that was three in Hollywood.” He gazes at Karl, lowers his voice so it’s almost a sigh, “can you put some music on? Something sad…”

“Radiohead?” Karl smiles to himself.

“No, I want to wallow, not kill myself. And I _knew_ you’d say that.”

At least one of them’s an open book.

Karl fishes out his iPod from his overnight bag and scrolls to his Sunday morning playlist.

He waits for Chris to react to the first bars of the Andante. Karl looks down at him in satisfaction as Chris slides down into the couch, his forehead crumpling, his head falling back, that beautiful, strong neck arching back as he sinks into the music.

“I fucking love this, thank you.”

Karl kills his cigarette, takes Chris’ from his fingers where it’s burned away then pats Chris’ feet so he has to make room on the couch. He squashes up close, his hand lingering on the juncture of thigh and toweling. There’s just the whirr of the fans, the hum of traffic and the piano. He slides his thumb back and forth so it breaches the boundary between cloth and skin, olive fingers on buttermilk. He wonders if Chris has fallen asleep but then he speaks, without opening his eyes.

“Guess women get this shit all the time. Makes me want to burn my fucking bra.”

“Sell it on eBay, I would. Less wasteful.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Oh, I _am_.”

Chris opens his eyes and Karl feels a rush of heat across his chest; they’re so blue, so open sometimes, he’s fucked if he knows how he’s ever going to be free of these feelings; when Chris looks at him like that, the fierce protectiveness, the lust, everything else he dares not put a name to makes him feel out of control.

Chris scowls, maybe Karl isn’t funny after all. He leans to nudge Chris legs up onto the couch, so they’re stretched out, resting across his thighs. It’s probably too hot for any contact and he can see a sheen of sweat forming over the freshly showered limbs but he strokes the soft, milky skin, hoping to tease out more words, wanting to make up for the gentle ribbing.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing to my face but, you know, the fucking fake tan was enough – I’m sick of that, smells like shit, makes me look like a porn star—“

Karl arches an eyebrow.

“Hey, please tell me they didn’t wax you?”

“Still not funny.” But his lips have quirked. That’s good. “They were all looking at the shots so far and I over-heard them say they’re gonna ‘shop them. Fucking acne.”

“They do that to everyone, Chris. You’re…”

“Being a dick. I know.” He lowers his eyes, long, dark lashes fluttering as he sighs.

“I was going to say beautiful, but yeah, maybe a bit of a dick too.”

Chris shifts his hips upwards infinitesimally and Karl glances at the towel again notices the slight tenting of the fabric.

“Even Kath mentioned it. You know, after the movie. Fucking HD—”

“She mentioned the scars? _Really_? That’s insensitive for…”

“I don’t give a shit.”

Chris leans to rest his hand on Karl’s wrist where he’s worked it further under the towel, to the flat juncture of thigh and groin, inching closer.

Yeah? So why was he obsessing like this?

“Well, you don’t make _me_ want to throw up.” His thumb nestles against Chris’ balls, and he’s not able to stop himself grinning.

“Thanks. The feeling’s mutual.”

Chris looks down at the towel; just the tip of his tongue darts to his lower lip and Karl decides to take this as an invitation to kiss some sense into him. He lifts the leg pressed against his belly and bends it towards Chris’ chest so he can make room between them. He brings his mouth close to Chris’ ear, licks a circle on the helix, one hand pressing Chris into the couch.

“Beautiful ear,“ he whispers, darting his tongue into its depths, drawing the lobe between his teeth, ghosting a breath down Chris’ temple, laving the soft skin before he skates across to the cultivated stubble he knows Chris hides under, “beautiful skin,” and Chris’ hands find the back of Karl’s neck and pull him closer so his chest’s pressed against him and Karl’s aching cock’s crushed between them.

Chris lets out a low moan and turns his head so Karl can have access to his lips. His leg clamps around Karl’s back as they begin an exploration of each others’ mouths. Toothpaste, cigarettes and Merlot, tastes he’ll take to the grave with him and never regret knowing, Karl thinks as he takes the lead and sucks on Chris’ tongue, drawing him closer, safe, ignoring the fingers raking down his back, the pulse in his belly because this isn’t about him, not this time.

“Keep fucking still,” he growls, gripping Chris’ jaw and licking across the dent, the scarring he loves so much. “I need to feast on you.”

Chris chuckles and the sound rumbles chest to chest, and he complies by untangling his fingers from Karl’s t-shirt and splaying his arms out.

“Be my guest. That a throwback to Middle Earth? Geek.”

“Very kind, thanks.”

Karl sits up, and runs his hands from the dip of Chris’ throat down the dairy white skin, to his nipples, brings his fore-finger to that lush mouth, plunges it in and pulls it out with a smack loving how Chris eyes go wide in anticipation. He skates the moistened pad around the surface of the tan colored areola, wondering how many lovers before him have taken the trouble to note each tiny bump of the soft skin, how many have bothered to register how each press and shift of a finger will make Chris twitch under them like this.

“Beautiful,” he whispers again, soaks his middle finger and repeating the movement on the other side, mapping, claiming, meticulously.

“Karl, I…” there’s a hint of protest in there.

“You need to fucking listen to me, you idiot, just shush—“

And before Chris can argue with him, Karl pinches his left nipple mercilessly, bringing his mouth to those soft, wet lips to catch the gasp. He’s got a definite kink for sounds, he’s realized and good old Chris always obliges with a variety of animal noises whenever they fuck, unable to hold back, and Karl has to cover his mouth with his hand so they don’t get found out. But here, now, they’re safe and he wants to eke out every fucking sound he can from this throat, this chest, this mouth, as he peppers wherever he can reach with nips and flicks of his tongue.

“Come on you noisy bastard, let it out, let me know—“

“Fuck, Yeah, oh _fuck_.”

“Like me touching you, huh, like my tongue?”

“mm… I do… yeah. Shit, Karl, _kiss me_ , stop fucking teasing me…”

“I said shush, I’m busy here.”

He allows his hands to join each other side by side, across Chris’ ribs and flattens them, circling downwards, following the dirty blond trail, and stops where the towel’s tucked in on itself at his hips.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Chris tenses under him, and lets out another little moan as he waits, following the movement, holding his breath.

Karl sits up, his thighs tense from trying not to slip off the leather couch and he splays a foot out to keep his balance. He licks his thumb and swirls a circle around Chris’ navel.

“Beautiful,” he repeats, and follows with a thrust of his tongue, taking the precaution of pinning Chris down by the hips ‘cause he knows he’ll buck. Karl’s cock is straining for release, and he sends a reassuring message down south. He wonders at how the discomfort is strangely arousing. He finishes up one final sweep of his tongue and sits up again, bringing his hands to the knot.

“Fuck me, Karl, _please_. Jesus, need you to _fuck_ me.”

Eyes on Chris, on his parted lips, those thick eyebrows, his skin, _his_ skin; Karl takes the edges of the towel and in a ta-dah movement exposes him. He can’t help but hiss in appreciation, Chris’ cock is just… long and hard and well, fucking _beautiful_.

“Love your cock,” he manages to say, “love this vein,” he runs a finger from tip to base, “beautiful fucking cock, so hard for me.” It bobs against Chris’ belly when he inhales, responding to Karl’s voice like a trained dog to its master. “Love the head, so big, so red, so wet.” He swirls his thumb across the glistening tip and sucks the taste into his mouth, salt and tang firing urgent arousal through his loins.

He leans in for a long kiss, sweeping his hands from Chris’ biceps, to his elbows then his wrist, gripping hard to remind him to stay still.

“You turn me on so much, can’t look at you without wanting to fuck you,” he says into Chris’ jaw, dragging his teeth along the scars, “wanting all of you,” his tongue flickers and ghosts across Chris’ upper lip, swimming through breathy, hot moans, “every little detail, everything that’s you.”

“Fuck, yes, _fuck_.”

He kneels on the floor, shoves the coffee table away so he’s got room and repositions Chris so he’s sitting up, leaning on the back of the couch, and his knees up over Karl’s shoulders.

“I want every little secret part of you,” he breaths, using his thumbs to open out the pucker of his ass. “Want to taste you, make you mine,” he dips his middle finger in the abandoned glass of wine and uses it to ease his way in, angling Chris so he can suck his balls while working him open.

Chris is a guttural mess of incoherency above him, egging him on, pleading, complaining he’s taking too long so that, by the time it’s two fingers and Karl finds his prostrate with practiced ease, Chris is arching off the couch, digging his blunt nails into Karl’s neck and fucking begging.

“Karl, _don’t_ , fuck, just… _oh Jesus_ …”

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that, course I am, Chris. All for you.”

He hasn’t touched either of their cocks yet, loves keeping them on the edge like this, it makes him appreciate what they’ve got; maybe Karl needs reminding of who this is waiting for him, maybe he needs to do this more often, just have Chris lie back like this, soaking up Karl’s hunger, taking him in.

Karl tries not to stumble when he hunts for lube while simultaneously dumping his clothes as he goes, cock already slicked up and ready by the time he’s back between Chris’ knees. His eyes are blown wide, it’s like an eclipse Karl thinks absently; he doubts Chris would notice any change in his own, non-descript eyes, but the blue, it just…well, _kills_ him, and he has to say it again.

“Fucking beautiful,” it’s a gasp and a grunt as he enters Chris roughly, pulling his legs up over his shoulders, bending into him to find his mouth, to rake his cock over the cluster of nerves, to start a relentless, unsubtle pounding into him. Seriously, he had every intention of taking this part slow too, but the fucking sight of Chris on that couch, the way he hadn’t moved, the trust, it bloody drives him nuts, and he just has to press red marks into his shoulders, his hips, his chest when he’s not scrabbling for purchase on the back of the couch, tugging at Chris’s neck, spell-bound by the insistent, wanton sounds coming from somewhere deep inside of Chris.

“Ung, ung, fuck, fuck, Karl… _Karl_.”

Fingers pinching into his neck, his back, as Karl thrusts harder and deeper, utterly not caring if he’s in or out of control until, finally, just when he can feel he’s about to fall, and the burning in his cock and back threatens to turn him to fucking ash or something, he finds the strength to slip his tan fingers round Chris’ flushed cock. The movement draws out an agonized guttural shout from him, as Chris comes almost immediately, smearing both their chests. Karl doesn’t let go, keeps working him as he makes a few last, desperate lunges, his forehead rolling against Chris jaw, mouth out of control, moaning, “You, you,” over and over like it’s a prayer.

He hears Chris say, “I’m here, it’s okay, come for me, baby; let go _for me_ —”

And he does, long and hard, stuttering erratic moans into Chris’ stubble, lifting him up and back into the couch till he’s kneeling on the seat, holding still through the last shuddering breaths of his orgasm with Chris strokes his hair, saying shit in his ear that breaks his fucking heart.

“Good thing I’m bendy,” Chris finally mumbles into his sweaty hair.

“Yeah,” is all he can manage and he pulls away reluctantly, yanking at a corner of the towel to clean them both up, kissing Chris’ instep on the way down to the floor. The wine glass has fallen onto its side, bleeding into the rug below. “Should’ve listened to me; you don’t get these problems with white.”

Chris settles between Karl’s legs, leans his head into Karl’s collar bone and rolls his head like a cat when Karl cups his jaw and strokes his throat.

“Yeah, Papa Bear,” Chris sighs, “you’re always right.”

And Karl swats him gently across the top of his head, kisses his ear and reaches for the pack of cigarettes.

“You’re learning, mate.”

“I am. And you’re not beyond saving either.”

“I’m not?”

“Yeah, more of this Mozart and less of that eighties crap and I might let you fuck me again.”

He can feel Chris smiling against his arm.

“By the way, thanks,” Chris adds.

“Yeah, anytime,” and Karl takes the cigarette from him and brings it to his lips, wrapping his legs around Chris, his arms around his chest, unable to let him go.

~end~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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